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His finger draws a slow figure eight on my wrist. I can’t look away. I can’t stop imagining how that finger would feel inside me.

“And what wouldgetting on very welllook like, exactly?” I’m uber impressed that my voice is relatively steady.

It’s more than I can say for my pulse, which is thudding like a hammer between my legs.

“Well, to start with, it would look like meeting me for a drink the moment you get off work tonight.”

“I don’t even know your name, muscle boy.”

He gives a low chuckle that hits me in the base of my spine and starts spiraling deliciously upward.

“It’s Dimitry. Here. I’ll write it down for you.” His hand grasps my T-shirt and draws me slowly toward the counter. He leans over it, so big he barely has to move to find himself on my side. Pulling the pen off the V of my T-shirt, he takes the top off with his teeth, then—still grinning—writes his number on the hem bunched up in his hand.

“Wow.” I try not to focus on the warmth of his fingers grazing my belly. “You owe me a T-shirt, Dimitry.”

“If you stay the night at my place, I’ll wash it for you.”

I shake my head, biting my lip to stop myself smiling. “You really don’t give up, do you?”

“Hey, I’ve been trying to ask you out for five months. It’s taken this long to get fromgo to helltodon’t call me Skippy. I thought I’d strike while the iron was hot.”

His phone rings. He answers it without letting go of my shirt. “Da.”

His face changes as he listens, though his hand doesn’t move. He says something curt in Russian, then ends the call.

“Let me guess,” I say sarcastically. “The boss man needs his shoes cleaned?”

“Something like that.” He grins, not seeming in the least offended. “You’re going to call me. And if you don’t, I’m coming here at the end of your shift to ask why.”

As he lets go of my T-shirt, his large fingers trail over the skin of my waist, making me shiver.

He walks out of the café, his broad back and ridiculously tight ass making denim and white cotton look like they’ve just been invented. He jogs across the street, then turns around. When he sees me still watching him, he grins and raises his hand.

Fuck.

I’m in serious trouble.

As it turns out,I get out of work that night before Dimitry can come back. For the next few days, I dodge him like hell.

And not just because of how good he looks in denims.

The truth is that, technically, I still have a boyfriend. I saytechnicallybecause lately, I’ve been dodging Miguel even harder than I have Dimitry.

Miguel is a striker for Cádiz Football Club, which is a second-rate team from the amateur leagues. Unfortunately, in a small city like Malaga, the team is just big enough for the paparazzi to treat the players like minor celebrities. Lately, a persistent photographer who spotted us at Pillars nightclub a few weeks ago has been hanging around the café, trying to getsnaps of me like I’m some kind of footballer’s wife. It’s starting to freak me out, but that’s not the only reason I’ve been trying to break up with Miguel for weeks.

There’s also the banal conversation, his awful friends, and the even worse sex.

The only reason I finally agreed to meet him at Pillars tonight is to make sure he gets the message once and for all that we’re over.

And the sudden urgency has nothing to do with Dimitry writing his name on your shirt, huh?

I push that thought away as I wipe down the counter, missing Lucia like hell for the umpteenth time since she left the café to go and live with Roman. I didn’t realize how much I relied on our daily banter to get me through the long shifts until she wasn’t here anymore to laugh with.

It’s late, but still so hot that the streets are teeming with people. I look at the tables outside, still waiting for me to pack them up, and heave an internal sigh. Sometimes, work feels like a mountain that never ends.

Then I notice one of the African street hawkers, who sells watches on a board outside, stacking the chairs.

“Ibrahim!” I wave. He lifts a shoulder, smiling, but doesn’t say anything as he picks up the tables and piles them inside. I go into the kitchen and fill a foil tray with the paella we give away as free tapas to our customers. I hand it to Ibrahim as he puts the last table inside the door. He nods shyly. “Shukran,”he says.Thank you.